by Philip Chen
The two men who pushed the casket in were dressed in blue and each wore a rubber apron and elbow-length rubber gloves. Rolling the casket up to Winslow's corpse, one of the men encoded an alphanumeric sequence onto a keypad on the side of the casket. The casket lid slowly opened, revealing a bare, metallic interior. Inside the casket lay a gray rubber body bag.
The two men took out the body bag and placed it on the gurney next to Winslow. They unzipped the bag and gently lifted the charred remains of Winslow into the bag. When the body was moved, the overpowering stench of wet ashes, burnt tissue, and death once again filled the room. The odor subsided when the two Marines zipped the body bag shut. The two Marines gently lifted the body bag into the stainless steel casket and secured the lid. The atmosphere inside the casket was evacuated and replaced with nitrogen gas. The temperature of the casket was set at zero degrees centigrade.
As the two Marines quietly pushed the casket out of the cold room, Smith said, "Mr. Tuchman. Sheriff Johnson. As far as you're concerned this incident never occurred. National security demands this extreme action. I would rather not discuss what will happen if you continue to interfere with our mission. Am I making myself sufficiently clear?"
Neither Tuchman nor Johnson reacted to Smith's warning. They stood in silence as Smith and Adams searched the cold room for any more items connected with Winslow and placed the items in plastic evidence bags.
Satisfied that nothing more remained in the cold room, Twoomey picked up Johnson's revolver, took all the shells out of the cylinder and handed it back to Johnson. Twoomey also relieved Johnson of his speed loaders.
Twoomey, Smith, and Adams left the cold room. The two Marine guards left immediately behind them. Outside, the stainless steel casket was loaded into the second Suburban. The blue-clad men from the back, the front, and inside the building jumped into the three Suburbans and the gray caravan drove off at high speed. In the cold room, Johnson and Tuchman sat looking at each other in shock.
Tomorrow morning, Johnson would discover that InfoNet would list no information on a body being found in a burning farmhouse south of Mankato, Minnesota. His efforts at discovering the identity of the intruders would be equally fruitless.
Like the stranger said, it just didn't happen.
1993: Ambush
0630 Hours, Saturday, June 12, 1993: Bachelor Officers Quarters, Newport News, Virginia
The incessant ringing jarred Mike out of a deep sleep. After an enjoyable evening with his old friends, Gladys and Bob McHugh, Mike had turned in about 12:30 a.m. Seeing his old friends had helped Mike forget about his other war, the one he had waged daily in posh offices high above the common crowd. The warmth of this friendship with the McHughs was important to Mike, particularly with the drama now unfolding. As a field grade officer, Mike rated a single room at the bachelor officers' quarters. Turning in, he had asked for a wakeup call at 0700 hours so that he could report to McHugh's office at 0800 hours, as requested by the Admiral
Half asleep, Mike searched in the dark for the telephone. I must be late, he thought. Don't they send orderlies around anymore like they used to?
McHugh was a stickler for punctuality. Mike had sat through the discomfort of his fellow officers when they received an uncharacteristic dressing down for being even a few minutes late to a meeting with McHugh. God, what a way to start this tour. Mike shuddered at the thought.
Finally, Mike found the telephone and put the handset to his ear. He heard McHugh's deep voice. "Mike, sorry to wake you, but we've gotten some bad news. Can you get dressed right away and get over to my office? A car has been sent for you and will be outside."
Mike jumped out of bed, stripped off his pajamas and shaved. He then headed for the shower in his private bath and gave himself five minutes to scrub his body and hair. Afterward, he put on the uniform of an officer of the United States Navy. Because of the requirement that he carry his Walther revolver, the uniform coat was cut fuller than normal.
Wearing his overseas hat with the silver oak leaf of a Commander in the United States Navy, Mike blinked as he stepped into the bright daylight.
A gray sedan was stopped in front of the BOQ. A Marine in summer dress uniform stood at parade rest at the side of the car. As Mike approached the sedan, the young Marine corporal snapped to attention and saluted Mike.
Fumbling, Mike returned the salute.
"Good morning, Commander," said the young Marine as he opened the rear door of the sedan. After Mike settled down, he was driven to the other side of the sprawling naval station to the CSAC Operations Center, located in a nondescript, white clapboard building.
Once inside the small, unpretentious foyer, Mike walked over to the counter, which was manned by two young Marines dressed in the sand-colored camouflage fatigues that had become popular since the Gulf War in 1991. Mike had no doubt that despite the relative youth of these guards; they were battle-hardened veterans.
CSAC drew its military personnel primarily from the special operations groups of each of the armed services. Marines came from their Special Operations Regiment, which was in many respects the United States' answer to the British SAS. Mike knew that many of the Marines in the Special Operations Regiment had served inside Iraqi lines throughout the Persian Gulf conflict and some had paid the supreme price. None were ever identified. Navy Seals were another prime source of talent for CSAC, as were the Delta Force and the Air Force Special Forces, the ones that wore the distinctive red berets.
"Good morning, Commander," said the Marine behind the counter.
Stowed within easy reach under the counter was a Striker 12 shotgun, with the choke on maximum fire pattern.
"Commander, may I see your credentials?"
Margaret had packed Mike's CSAC credentials in his suitcase. Normally, CSAC agents carried no credentials whatsoever, until they had passed the stringent credibility tests at CSAC Operations Center. Those credentials had to be returned upon leaving the CSAC facility. Technology had advanced dramatically in terms of these identification cards. Encoded with a silicon chip, the modern cards permitted the holder to access only those areas for which he or she was authorized.
Mike handed the identification card to the young Marine, who placed it into a special card reader. The liquid crystal readout confirmed that the holder of the card was Mike Liu. The Marine dutifully returned the card to Mike. "Commander, we will still need the ReTek DNA Analyzer identification."
"That's new. What does this ReTek Analyzer do?"
"I'm not a scientist, sir, but I understand that it compares your saliva sample with file DNA records to verify that you are who you say you are. The information from the DNA Analyzer is then collaborated with your other identification parameters so that a proper statistical correlation can occur."
The Marine handed Mike a small plastic cup from a sterile packet.
"Thanks, that's very interesting."
Mike spat into the cup. The Marine opened a sterile package, removed a small glass rod and inserted it into the plastic cup. The sample of Mike's saliva that clung to the glass rod immediately turned a bright purple color. The Marine guard then placed the glass rod briefly into a small opening in the desktop ReTek DNA Analyzer where the purplish solution was quickly dried.
The glass rod was finally inserted into a second opening. Within seconds the small liquid crystal screen displayed the following: "Liu, Aloysius Xavier Kang Sheng, D.O.B. 12-20-43, Level One -- XR2907.33." The Marine triggered a buzzer that unlocked the door to the immediate right of the counter.
"Welcome to Newport News, Commander Liu."
Mike turned to see the possessor of the pleasant, but familiar female voice. Ellen Jones, McHugh's long-time civilian secretary, had been sent out to the foyer to get Mike and to bring him immediately to the Situation Room.
"Hi, Ellen, long time no see."
"I heard that you've become a bigwig on Wall Street. Any hot tips?"
"No, I wish I had hot tips, but the side of the business I'm on onl
y deals with new project development -- I'm not your man."
"Shucks, that means I'll be stuck working for the old man until I retire," said Ellen, smiling. "Anyhow, come on, they're waiting for you."
Turning a corner at the end of the long corridor, Ellen and Mike stopped at a stainless steel elevator door, which was guarded by two Special Operations airmen wearing their special red cravats and berets. Each airman held a Heckler Koch MP-5 submachine gun. The least known of the special operations forces from which CSAC guards were drawn, the Special Operations Air Force personnel's normal duties included guarding installations such as the stealth fighter bases in Tomah, New Mexico, and other lesser known places, such as the mysterious Area 51, where highly classified artifacts were stored.
"These guys seem so young," Mike whispered.
"They may look young, but they are all Special Ops guys," said Ellen.
Mike and Ellen held out their identification cards for the guards, one of whom ran each card through the reader on the door. The doors of the elevator opened and Mike and Ellen boarded. Silently, the stainless steel cage dropped Mike and Ellen more than 50 feet below ground. The CSAC installation was under sea level at this location.
The elevator slid to a gentle stop and the stainless steel doors slid open to reveal a subterranean world of artificial lighting. Sodium vapor lamps gave the narrow stainless steel corridors a yellowish hue. The corridors smelled of Lysol. If Mike hadn't known better, he could have believed that he was inside a modern nuclear fleet submarine.
Mike and Ellen hurried down the narrow corridor, finally reaching a hatchway, which silently slid open on their approach. In the anteroom which was flooded in red light, two Navy Seals stood silently with their submachine guns at the ready.
As Mike and Ellen approached, one of the Seals said, "Hello, Ms. Jones, the old man is waiting for you."
After the outer hatchway shut and a short period of time had passed for their eyes to adjust to the red light, the inner stainless steel hatchway slid open and Mike and Ellen went into the surprisingly small Situation Room of CSAC. Television monitors lined one wall of the remarkably small room.
On one wall was a large wall monitor, currently displaying a world map showing the locations of the four Watch Stations and the operational status of various CSAC facilities around the world. By punching in the right code, the operator of the wall monitor could bring up a variety of different geographical or informational inputs.
Using the flexibility of the various monitors available to him, McHugh could be in instant communication with the head of CSAC, all CSAC operations, the chief of staff of the armed services, the heads of the various intelligence agencies, the National Security Adviser, and the President at the touch of a button.
McHugh and several naval officers were clustered around a conference table at one end of the operations center. As the hatchway slid open, McHugh looked up.
"Mike, get over here."
"What's happened?" said Mike, knowing that in the security of the operations room, McHugh would finally brief him on the dramatic events that had been unfolding during the last forty-eight hours.
"Winslow's dead. George Smith in the Washington office has a friend who's the special agent in charge of the FBI's Minneapolis-St. Paul field office. A guy named Herb Adams. Adams found out that Winslow had been killed, we don't know by whom. With the attacks on you and Mildred and now confirmation on Winslow, we have to consider the possibility that someone has broken our cover. Anyway, Smith and that young kid, er, Twoomey, are taking a contingent of Marines up to Mankato, Minnesota, to retrieve the body. We're hoping that the cylinder will be intact."
"Any idea what's going on?" said Mike.
McHugh shook his head.
"The theories include KGB-run agents executing Armageddon orders. You can't trust the Russians, I still don't believe that they unilaterally decided to cease and desist. It might be turncoats. Of course, these attacks could be the work of the infiltrators."
Mike nodded. Many in CSAC doubted that the Soviet Union could have collapsed so quickly and without a last violent gasp. Even the idea of turncoats had merit. In an organization as large as CSAC, there were bound to be some bad apples. Every intelligence agency had their share.
McHugh's allusion to the infiltrators was even more unsettling, but Mike understood that even that possibility could not be discounted. Some CSAC theorists have suggested that whoever was manning the Sentinels on the ocean bottom, the so-called fallen stars, could have infiltrated the general population. If this were true, then the ability to contain whatever was in the fallen stars would become problematic.
Despite the fact that the true meaning of the Sentinels was unknown, CSAC had many theories as to their origin. If the source was non-terrestrial, then the agency could not over look the possibility that the objects were merely the tip of the iceberg. If that were true, then CSAC plans to counteract other forms of intervention that the visitors might inflict on the United States would have to be implemented. The prospect was terrifying. Notwithstanding the broader implications of the objects, the supposed visitors had been labeled infiltrators. The idea was scary and not bandied about lightly and certainly not by McHugh.
Mike was surprised.
Although the concept of infiltrators had been the topic of many meetings and reports, McHugh had always listened quietly without comment.
McHugh sighed. "The scary thing is that we thought we had the last word in security. If not, then we have more problems than we ever thought we would."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I'd like you to head up to Washington to coordinate the investigation."
"What about the activity at the Watch Stations?"
"I had wanted you to go with me to Watch Station One, where activity was first noted. That will have to wait. I was hoping to go to Watch Station One today, but with everything happening, that may have to wait. Nevertheless, I need to get there sometime this week. You can catch up with me when you've sorted this thing out. This is too important. First, we need to make sure all the transmitted information is safely received, and second, make sure any leaks are cauterized immediately. Is that clear?"
Cauterizing leaks didn't have to be explained. Mike knew what he had to do.
"Yes, sir. I'll leave right away, Admiral."
"Good, I've arranged for a plane to take you to Pautuxent. From there an armed escort will take you to CSAC - Washington. I can't have any more of my agents shot up."
"Me, neither."
"Just be careful, Mike."
1130 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Pautuxent Naval Air Test Center
The Navy Learjet C-21A touched down on the runway of the Pautuxent Naval Air Test Center in St. Mary's County, Maryland, about 11:30 a.m. and taxied to the hangar area where three dark gray vehicles waited. The co-pilot of the small jet walked to the rear of the jet and opened the door/stairway. Mike, still in his summer tans, unbuckled his seat belt, grabbed his suitcase, and hurried over to the first vehicle. The final leg of this journey had to be made by ground transportation, as the CSAC facility in Washington did not have a heliport.
The three vehicles were all dark metallic gray, unmarked Suburbans with dark gray side and rear windows. Consequently, casual onlookers would not be able to see inside the vehicles. The dark gray color was likewise intentional. The Suburbans were unmarked and carried ordinary Maryland license plates, again to not attract undue attention.
Navy Warrant Officer David Lee snapped to attention and saluted. "Welcome to Maryland, Commander. If it's okay with you we would prefer to have you in the second vehicle." Lee was dressed in a dark blue uniform devoid of insignia or other markings. He could easily be mistaken for a civilian worker.
Mike was always amazed at how many weapons could be stashed in the nooks and crannies of the vehicle. Besides Colt AR-15 assault rifles and Striker 12 special purpose shotguns with special laser sights, the backs of the front seats had antipersonnel grenades, flash grena
des designed to blind opponents, a grenade launcher and one handheld surface-to-air Stinger rocket launcher. Each Suburban had sufficient Kevlar helmets and vests for the occupants of the vehicle. A sliding roof panel facilitated the use of the Stinger.
Seated in the front seat of the Suburban was a major in the United States Army. At 32, Fred Bernstein was a lifer totally dedicated to special operations. A slight but muscular man, the former Delta Force member was known as one of the most dependable of the special ops men recruited to CSAC.
Bernstein spoke softly into the hand-held, scrambled communicator. "Dave, let's head on out, but be careful. We're code red on this assignment."
Code red meant that the CSAC had reason to believe that an attack might be launched on its operatives at any time. With confirmation of Winslow's demise and the unprovoked attacks on Mildred and Mike, McHugh had placed all CSAC facilities on code red.
From an operational standpoint, code red meant that any movement of CSAC personnel was to be clandestine. Travel on the open highway was prohibited and convoys had to travel on lesser known roads. This prohibition was necessary for two reasons: first, evasive travel gave potential adversaries fewer opportunities to stage ambushes; second, the command staff felt that travel on back roads minimized collateral damage, the chance that civilians might get in the way of flying bullets. One could only imagine the repercussions that would come if Washington Post headlines screamed, "Super Secret Intelligence Agency Gunfight Causes Massive Carnage on the Beltway."
The convoy turned right at the exit gate for the Pautuxent Naval Air Test Center and headed north on State Highway 235. The plan was to take county roads as much as possible. As a security matter, the convoy leader would choose the final route from several options, once the convoy was underway. Traffic was sparse on the highway going north -- a few station wagons, one or two sport cars, several panel trucks and an occasional pickup truck. The three vehicle convoy slipped easily into the stream of traffic.
